


I'd Rather Laugh With The Sinners

by 21ShootingStars



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Addict Sherlock, Drugs, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Young Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:31:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/21ShootingStars/pseuds/21ShootingStars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock's mother dies, his father sends the newborn boy to live with relatives in France. After a tragic car accident kills his aunt and uncle, seventeen year old Sherlock deals with his grief in his own way. This is the story of what happens when Mycroft finds out about his brother's problems and trying to help.  Warning: Drug abuse and mentions of depression and a suicide attempt. Possible Johnlock later in the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Screaming, so much screaming.  Spinning, spinning, spinning out of control. Squealing tires, blinding light, the sound of an explosion.  Pain, too much pain, burning pain.  And finally nothing; pitch black nothing._

Sherlock awoke with a start, momentarily unsure of where he was, the unfamiliar surroundings scaring him almost as much as the nightmare.

“Oh, bloody hell.” He muttered upon remembering where he was and what he had to do later that day.  “This is going to be a long day.”

According to the clock beside his bed, he had only been asleep for three hours, but three hours was more than he’d honestly been expecting.  Sherlock drowsily pulled himself from beneath the smothering blankets, which had wrapped around him like a cocoon during the night, and went to shower in a useless attempt to wash away the memories that plagued him in his sleep.  

* * *

“Settle down, class; settle down! I’ve got a little surprise for you today. It seemed such a lovely morning that I though a pop quiz would be in order! So, put your notes away, I don’t want to see anything but a pencil out on your desks. Don’t worry; it’s just a little one. Only fifteen questions.”

The miserable groaning of Mr. Mitchell’s fourth hour Advanced Maths class was interrupted by the sound of a series of sharp knocks on the classroom door.  Annoyed at the interruption, Thomas Mitchell barked out a gruff “Enter,” before returning to his task of handing out quizzes.

The door creaked open and a tall, thin boy who looked to be about age 16 stepped into the room. His eyes landed on Mitchell and he quickly crossed the classroom and handed the man a yellow class schedule while saying “I’m Sherlock Rein-“  the boy paused for a moment and corrected himself, “Sherlock Holmes; I’m a transfer student.”

The students were immediately far more interested in the boy than they had been when he first entered the room. It had been at least a year since they’d had a transfer student.  They all looked him over with appraising eyes, looking for any clues about where he was transferring from. They found nothing.

“Alright, Holmes, you said? You can take the empty seat over by the window. We’re about to take a quiz, but you can sit this one out until we can catch you up to what we’re working on. Go on, have a seat. And do try to be on time from now on; my class began at eleven and you are over twenty minutes late.”

“If it’s alright with you, sir, I’ll take the quiz. I am surely capable of doing whatever you’ve been working on.” Mitchell bristled slightly at Sherlock’s confident words and somewhat arrogant demeanor, but he handed Sherlock a quiz and said nothing more on the matter.

As Sherlock made his way across the classroom to the empty seat by the window, he noticed that a few of his new classmates were looking at him as if he’d grown a second head.  He ignored their staring, not caring what they thought of him. As far as Sherlock was concerned, they weren’t worth his attention.

Sherlock breezed through the quiz with no difficulty whatsoever. After all, he’d covered the material on the quiz years earlier; it was all just too simple. He didn’t understand why the others were all still working over ten minutes after he’d finished, nor did he understand what they might find difficult about it.  He also had no idea what he was supposed to do with the quiz now that he’d finished it.  He had no prior experiences with classrooms, and therefore had no idea what the proper protocol for turning in a completed quiz would be. Was he supposed to just bring it to the teacher once he finished? Was he supposed to wait for the quiz to be collected once everyone finished?

Finally, some fifteen minutes after Sherlock finished the quiz, another student completed the final problem and brought the quiz up to the teacher’s desk.  Sherlock followed the girl’s example and turned in his quiz.

The quiet that had filled the room while all the students were occupied gradually dissipated, the room filling with more and more whispered conversations as, one by one, they finally finished the quiz.

Boredom was quickly creeping up on Sherlock. He’d not even been at the school for two hours yet and he was already feeling as if boredom would soon consume him. He’d already made observations about half the students in the room, the other half were seated somewhere behind him and he was unable to see them to make any worthwhile observations.  He refused to even consider trying to compose while this bored because he knew from past experiences that music created just because he needed something to occupy his mind never turned out as good as music with some sort of inspiration behind it. He hadn’t even thought to bring a book to read with him.  This was shaping up to be the dullest day he’d seen in ages.

Sherlock was just pondering ways to get kicked out of school when he noticed that the girl seated in front of him was speaking to him.

“Hello! My name’s Kate. Did you just move to town, or are you transferring from one of the other schools in the area? “

Sherlock considered just ignoring the girl, Kate, but he didn’t have anything else to do and, though he doubted this would be a very enthralling conversation, he would take any distraction from boredom that presented itself at this point.  That didn’t mean he was going to be nice, though; after all, Sherlock wasn’t even sure he knew how to be nice.

“I’ve just moved here.”

“Where are you from? Your accent sounds exactly like everyone else around here, so you can’t be from too far away.”

“France, actually. I’m afraid the accent is just an imitation, something I picked up from speaking with a couple local residents.” Sherlock had always had a bit of a gift when it came to imitating the accents and speaking patterns of people around him and for learning languages with ease. It was probably a product of his upbringing, but he couldn’t be sure.

“That’s….wow. You really sound like you’re from around here.  What brought you here to Sussex from France?” The girl’s interrogation was beginning to grate on Sherlock’s already frazzled nerves, but he was sure that he would be getting these same questions again before the day was done. He could only hope that she would spread the word of everything he said and that would, hopefully, reduce the amount of people who would ask him the same questions.

“I have relatives who live here.  I was coerced into living with them for a while.” It was this or therapy, and there was no way Sherlock was going to consent to therapy.  He didn’t need help, because he didn’t have a problem. Of course Mycroft refused to believe that, which is what led to Sherlock’s current situation.

“Well, it’s really great here. I’m sure you’ll like it! If you want, I can show you around the area sometime. Maybe this Saturday?” Kate offered, looking hopeful.

Sherlock was positive that he would _not_ be around long enough for him to like this place.  He already had seven ideas on how he could escape back to Toulouse without alerting his meddlesome sibling. He was also positive that he did not want to spend any time with the girl outside school. He didn’t want to spend time with anyone outside school; actually, he didn’t want to spend time with anyone regardless of whether he was in school or not. A third thing he was positive of was that this girl, Kate, would not want to spend time with him if she knew anything about him. He wasn’t exactly a likeable sort of guy, not if he let himself act how he wanted.

“I’m sure your boyfriend would be unhappy with you offering to show strange boys from school around the city while he’s playing at a football tournament.”

“How did you know about Davy? And how did you know about the football?” The girls eyes were wide and she looked a lot more uncomfortable than she had a minute ago.

“I simply observed. You are wearing a sweatshirt for the boys’ football team and I saw a sign in the hallway wishing the team luck in their tournament this weekend.  It was not very difficult to deduce that you had a boyfriend on the team who would be away for the weekend.”

If the fact that she turned her chair to face away from Sherlock, muttering something about freaks as she did so, was anything to go by, Kate was no longer interested in talking to Sherlock. And that suited him just fine.

At noon, the bell rang for lunch and Mitchell dismissed the class after giving out a long list of problems from their textbook that they should do for homework.

Sherlock, who had never been one to eat very frequently, and he had taken to eating even less than before in the last six months or so, took the hour allotted for lunch as an opportunity to explore, mostly in the hopes of finding either a piano or a library.  Of all the things that the Holmes residence in Sussex was lacking, it was the piano that bothered him the most. But Sherlock knew he shouldn’t have been surprised; Mycroft had never really struck him as someone who would bother learning anything like an instrument, and from everything he’d been told over the years Mr. Holmes had never shared or supported his wife’s passion for music.

Sherlock’s hands were itching to play again.  He was sure the month without any practice meant that he would be horrible, and he refused to even think about how much his violin skill had deteriorated since he’d last had a chance to practice. It had been months since he’d gotten to play. Six months.  Sherlock knew if he didn’t find himself a violin soon, he’d have no hope of ever being a decent violinist again.

After a bit of searching, he finally found a promising looking building on the far side of campus from his maths classroom. 

The letters above the door labeled it as the Music and Arts Building. Upon entering the red brick building, Sherlock could immediately see that the hallway of the first floor was full of students’ art projects.  There were all sorts of attempts at paintings and drawings and sculptures lining the walls and floor of the hall.  He doubted that there would be any musical instruments somewhere so obviously dedicated to the visual arts, but he reasoned that he’d rather waste a couple minutes searching than take the chance that he’d miss what he was looking for. As he neared the end of the hall, Sherlock found a staircase leading up to the second floor and he finally heard what he was looking for.  It was muffled, but it was undeniably the sound of music. A saxophone, if his ears could be trusted.

Sherlock just about flew up the stairs.

The second floor of the building was far less cluttered than the first.  The only things in the hall were a few benches next to the doors to what appeared to be the offices of the music teachers at the school.  The left hand side of the hallway was lined with practice rooms, some of which just had a few stands for music, and one of these was occupied by a boy a few years younger than Sherlock who was practicing on an alto saxophone, but three of the practice rooms contained what he required.  When he tried to open the door, he discovered that they were all locked.  Further inspection of the area found a sign which stated that he should get the key from Mr. Charlie Jones, whose office was room 224, if he wanted into a practice room.

Charlie Jones proved to be a jolly old man who had a large office at the end of the hall, about the size of most classrooms, which contained two grand pianos.  He apparently taught all the instrumental music classes at the school, and gave private lessons to the more promising pupils. Mr. Jones happily handed over the key to one of the practice rooms.

Sherlock’s watch told him that he only had about twenty minutes before the bell would ring and force him to move to his next class, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care. He was unabashedly ecstatic at the prospect of playing again, and it took all his restraint to stop himself from skipping his way down the hall and to the practice room.

He unlocked the door of Practice Room B and settled onto the bench in front of an unassuming upright. Sherlock knew better than to attempt to jump right into the pieces he’d been playing before his unexpected hiatus and expect to play them well, and so he contented himself with a few simple exercises to warm up and familiarize himself with the feeling of the keys beneath his fingers once again.

It didn’t bother him that he was back to playing scales and simple music meant for musicians who hadn’t been playing anywhere near as long as he had. It didn’t even bother him that the piano was in dire need of tuning. Simply being surrounded by the music once again helped to rid him of a small portion of the dark, dangerous cloud that had been following him ever since the _incident_ , which had brought his location to his meddlesome sibling’s attention and caused him to be returned to this country and his biological father’s home for the first time in seventeen years. 

But Sherlock wasn’t thinking about such things while he played. No, he was remembering the days when he was first learning these basic skills. He couldn’t help remembering. For the last six months he hadn’t been able to help himself when it came to remembering these things every time he played, or even every time he heard someone else playing, anything that she had taught him.  He remembered growing up in the house in Toulouse and hearing his aunt, the woman who raised him, the woman who was practically a mother to him, giving him advice on how to perfect the piece he was working on, or giving him suggestion on what to play next , or helping him with his composing. 

While he played was the only time Sherlock would allow himself to remember his aunt. Because these were happy memories. If he allowed his mind to wonder to thoughts of his aunt and uncle at other times, it was inevitable that he would find himself remembering the last time he saw them alive. And that was something he saw far too often while he slept for him to want to see it again during the day.

As his short time with the music came to a close, Sherlock took the key back to Mr. Jones and made his way to his next class, which he was sure would be the easiest hour of his day. He was only in the class because part of the graduation requirements for the school was that everyone must take a foreign language class every year. The only foreign language classes available at the school were French and Spanish, but the Spanish class was full and so he was left with having to take French.  The school had refused to see reason and believe that he was, in all likeliness, more fluent in French than the instructor.

This time Sherlock managed to avoid being late. He took a seat at the back of the room after introducing himself, in French, of course, just because he felt like it, and worked on the homework he’d received in his last class until the class began.

By ten minutes into the class, Sherlock was forced to bite his tongue and stop himself from correcting the teacher. She was decent enough at pronunciation, but every little slip, however minor, made him want to shout.  He wanted to correct her every time, he wanted to stand up and tell the class that they were mimicking an idiot, but if there was anything he’d learned in the last seventeen years, it was that no one likes to be corrected, especially by someone they consider beneath them.

So Sherlock sat quietly by and let the woman make a fool of herself.

For the rest of the day Sherlock managed to avoid any interactions with his fellow students, rebuffing every attempt made at conversation.  The only speaking he did for the rest of the day was to introduce himself to the teacher at the beginning of each class period.

He was sick of school already, and he’d only been enrolled for a little over half a day.  And to make it all worse, he had to go back to his father’s house now that the school day was done.

Boredom had always been a problem for Sherlock, and his methods for eliminating the boredom had gotten progressively stranger and more dangerous for many months now, but all that was over until he could escape the clutches of his so called family and get back to his true home.

Planning an escape had never sounded like a better way to spend an afternoon than it did today.


	2. Chapter 2

_“Of all the idiotic things you could have done! You were willing to throw away your talents and your life by putting those disgusting chemicals into your body? I don’t understand it, Sherlock? What happened to you? Last time I saw you, you were perfectly happy and normal.”_

_Mycroft, of course, had a fairly good idea of what had happened to make his brother like this. And Sherlock knew that Mycroft knew, so he felt perfectly justified in ignoring him._

_In fact, Sherlock had felt perfectly justified in ignoring everyone for the last three weeks.  So he had._

_He’d been stuck in this stupid, dull hospital room for three weeks and he hadn’t said a word since he’d been found.  He hadn’t uttered a single sound all through the two weeks of vomiting and hallucination that came with withdrawal. He hadn’t uttered a sound when he’d been caught attempting to flee the hospital for a third time and it had been decided that he would have to be restrained. He hadn’t even said a word of protest when Mycroft first showed up._

_Pretty much all Sherlock had done for the last three weeks was stare out of his window while he tried to avoid thinking about his biggest, and, if he were being perfectly honest, his first, real failure. And it was such a simple thing, too. Something thousands of people had done before he even considered it. How it was possible for him to fail at suicide, Sherlock had no idea._

_He'd even had a backup plan! He'd found himself a quiet alleyway about a kilometer from his supplier's favorite haunt and proceeded to inject dose after dose after dose of cocaine. His backup plan was rather gruesome one that he hadn't really intended to use unless necessary. He'd made a spur of the moment decision to go through with it, though.  He'd used the pocket knife he'd been carrying around in his back pocket for years to make a rather bloody mess of his arms._

_Sherlock still couldn't believe how terrible his luck that night had been. Why was it that the police had chosen that night to patrol the area? How was it even possible that they'd been able t see him in the dark of the night? And how on earth was it possible that they'd gotten him to the hospital before he'd managed to bleed to death?_

_Sherlock had spent the first day or so that he's been in the hospital unconscious.  The next two weeks had been  pure hell because of the withdrawals he was suffering through. It was 15 days into his hospital stay when his identity had been revealed thanks to an missing persons report his boss had filed with the police. It was the day after the hospital discovered his identity that Mycroft had arrived, proving Sherlock's theory that his brother had it set up so that he was alerted every time Sherlock's name appeared in any database anywhere in the world. Sherlock had known that Mycroft would do something like that once he discovered that the Reinhardts had died in a car crash._

_Mycroft had been trying, unsuccessfully, for nearly four days to get any reaction from him. The doctors and nurses had been trying ever since he’d been admitted.  All Sherlock had done was stare blankly out the window or tug on his restraints in another futile attempt at escaping._

_One thing Sherlock had noticed since Mycroft had arrived was that Mycroft never seemed to shut up. He always had another card up his sleeve, another plan for how to make Sherlock react._

_“Fine, Sherlock, act like a child if you must. Ignore me. I don’t really care, you know. You aren’t offending me with your silence.  But I know you can hear me, and you are going to listen to what I have to say.  Once you are cleared to leave the hospital, you are coming back with me to England. I’ve already made contact with one of the best rehabilitation facilities around.  It’s just outside of London.  After you’ve been cleared by the facility you will either move in with me in London, or with Father in Sussex until you’ve gotten your life back on track.”_

_“Il n’est pas mon père!” Sherlock hadn’t been able to stop himself from responding. It was instinct. Every time Artair Holmes was called Sherlock’s father, his response was the same. It was so ingrained that Sherlock was unable to stop himself, ending his weeks of silence._

_“Speak English, Sherlock, you’ll have to get used to it now that you’re leaving France. And of course he’s your father!”_

_“There is no reason for me to be speaking English, Mycroft! You’re in France now, brother, so you should be the one changing your language. And he’s not my father. Not anymore. He never acted like one to begin with, and he officially stopped being my father the second he signed the adoption papers.  My name isn’t Sherlock Holmes anymore; it’s been Sherlock Reinhardt for half my life. My parents aren’t Artair and Elizabeth Holmes. They were Alexander and Victoria Reinhardt. You’re not even really my brother anymore, so you can leave and go back to your miserable England and let me be.  I will not be going to any rehabilitation facility.”_

_Sherlock felt a brief bit of satisfaction at the tiny bit of hurt that crossed Mycroft’s face when he said that they weren’t even really brothers anymore, but it was gone before he had a chance to truly revel in it._

_“I know you won’t believe this, but he always intended to bring you home. Every time he started to think it was time to go get you, Aunt Victoria would send him another picture of you laughing and enjoying yourself and he would change his mind about taking you away from them. He didn’t want to bring you home when being with them made you so happy. But they’re gone now, Sherlock, not that you bothered to tell anyone, and it’s time for you to return to where you belong.”_

_“I don’t belong there! I belong in Toulouse, where I have a home, the very home I grew up in, and friends-“ Sherlock began, before he was interrupted by Mycroft._

_“Your dealer and all the local junkies do not count as friends, Sherlock!” Mycroft’s normally impassive face was suddenly full of a barely suppressed rage as he shouted at his younger sibling._

_Ignoring him, Sherlock continued “I even have a job, well, I’m probably fired after going missing for this long, but the point is that I can take care of myself. I will not leave France."_

_To Sherlock, it was obvious that Mycroft barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Instead, he hissed one final response to Sherlock before stalking out of the room, umbrella in hand, "You are going back to England with me if I have to bind and gag you before tossing you in the boot of my car to get you there."_

* * *

 

Sherlock woke for the first time in ages to the obnoxious beeping of his alarm clock. He couldn't remember exactly what he'd dreamed, but whatever it was left a bitter, stressful feeling in its wake.

Suddenly, there was nothing he wanted more than a cigarette. Well, he would actually rather have his cocaine back, but a cigarette would have to do for now; he'd work on getting hold of his preferred poison later.

Grabbing the half-empty pack out of his dressing gown pocket, Sherlock crossed his room and went to the window. After climbing out of the window and onto the roof, Sherlock settled himself cross legged on top of the Holmes family home.

Fifteen minutes and three cigarettes later, he climbed back through his window. He could almost hear Mycroft's condescending voice in his ear, "Three cigarettes before you've even showered? Oh, dear; something must have you really worked up. Keep going at this rate and you'll poison yourself before the day is done."

Sherlock shook himself to get rid of the image of his brother; it was far too early to bother thinking about Mycroft.

After a hot shower that did absolutely nothing to relax his constantly taut muscles, Sherlock found himself standing in front of a wardrobe that was far more grandiose than it needed to be.

Looking into the wardrobe, Sherlock was reminded of another reason he could be upset with Mycroft.

His useless lump of a brother hadn't even allowed Sherlock to return to his home in Toulouse to pack his own bag. He'd called some woman named Anthea and requested that she go to Sherlock's home and pack a few bags full of whatever Sherlock might need. Sherlock hadn't even gotten to make any special requests, which meant that his skull and all of his experiments were left behind. Presumably Mycroft had kept Sherlock from his home because he was worried that Sherlock would attempt to smuggle out some hidden stash of cocaine in one of his bags. If that was the case, he needn't have worried; there was nothing left of his stash. He'd brought it all with him the night he tried to kill himself, intending to use every last bit of it to end his existence. 

 The clothing that had been packed for him was possibly all of his least favorites. There was nothing interesting at all. Of course, what could he expect from someone whose boss wore nothing but three-piece suits day and night? The girl, Anthea, probably thought Sherlock was just as uptight as his brother, and that would explain why his wardrobe was full of everything except comfortable or interesting clothing.

He finally found some clothing he could stand to wear, hidden in the darkest depths of the wardrobe, and began to ready himself for the day.

As he was about to put on his purple shirt, long-sleeved of course, he never wore anything with short sleeves anymore, Sherlock allowed himself a moment to look at the marks covering his skin.

His left arm was a mess of faded track marks and angry red lines, all of the marks at least four weeks old but every one looking like it had been made only days before. Sherlock knew they probably looked even worse to other people than they did to him, so he kept them covered somewhat out of a rare bit of concern for others but mostly to keep them from asking him annoying questions. His right arm was the only remaining visible evidence of what happened six months ago that ruined everything Sherlock knew.

The three of them had been on their way home from an audition of Sherlock's. He was trying to get his name out there as a violinist, but not many people would take a sixteen year old musician seriously.

No one had seen the other car coming until it was far too late. It was the dead of night and the other vehicle was driving with no lights on, going far faster than they should have been.  They hadn’t stopped, or even slowed down, when turning onto the road that Sherlock’s family has driving on, and had slammed into the passenger side of the Reinhardt’s car.

Sherlock had been flung from the tumbling car through the open window because he hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt.  He’d been pretty badly injured, but being flung from the car had probably saved his life.  As the car finally stopped rolling, and Sherlock was futilely attempting to lift himself into some sort of standing position to check on his parents, he was shocked by a sudden wave of heat and flames and pieces of metal rushing toward him.

His right half had been caught in the flames, but they’d only managed to burn through his shirt and a small bit of his trousers before he’d managed to put the flames out by rolling around on the ground. Still, his arm and side were causing him excruciating pain; and that was on top of the pain he was already experiencing from the injuries he’d already acquired.

He’d known it was unlikely that his parent were still living. He’d also known it was unlikely that he would survive too long without medical aid.  His mobile had been sitting next to him on the seat of the car, so there was no way that he could call for assistance.  His final thought before surrendering to the darkness that was trying to claim him was that he only hoped someone living in the area would call for an ambulance.

He still had the burn scars to prove what had happened to him. No other visible evidence remained.

He kept these scars hidden for a more personal reason than the comfort of others or avoiding questions. He kept them covered so that he wouldn’t have to look at them, wouldn’t have to think about them, could pretend they weren’t there. He kept them covered so he could distance himself from the memories and the consequences attached to them.

Sherlock sighed and shook himself from his reflections. He needed to stop thinking about it. Thinking about it didn’t help, didn’t change what had happened.

What he really felt he needed, above all else, was a dose of his drug of choice. He would be able to stop thinking about it if he could just get his hands on some cocaine.  A month after he’d had his last dose and Sherlock’s skin still crawled with the feelings that came from withdrawal. The very real feeling of imaginary creatures crawling all over his body, never giving him a moments rest, had not left him for the last month. He devoted most of his attention all day, every day, to not reacting to the sensation. He would not allow anyone, especially Mycroft, the satisfaction of knowing what he was dealing with. 

Sherlock told himself that he would go explore Sussex on Saturday and see if he’d be able to recognize the usual types of places a dealer would haunt, and that was the thought that he decided would get him through his second day at school.

* * *

 

After his first day at school, Sherlock had known it was dull and that he didn’t like going to school. After his second day of school, Sherlock knew he absolutely hated it.

The school day had started with a Physical Education class, mandatory for everyone. His class contained all the males in his year.  It was the first time that Sherlock had ever been in a locker room situation, and he decided fairly quickly that it was not something he enjoyed.

The problem wasn’t that Sherlock had a problem with a bunch of boys changing around him, he’d seen plenty of people completely nude before so a group of adolescent boys getting slightly undressed around each other wasn’t what he had a problem with.  The problem was that Sherlock didn’t exactly enjoy feeling like he was on display and that was the exact feeling that he got while changing in a room full of his peers.

Changing faster than he would have previously thought was possible, Sherlock escaped the locker room unnoticed.

He noticed that most of his classmates were wearing mesh shorts and t-shirts, but Sherlock couldn’t even imagine himself in something like that. He wasn’t even comfortable in his lightweight jogging bottoms and hoodie. He felt too much like he was wearing pyjamas in public, which was always something he looked down on people for.

The class was in the middle of their section on tennis. Sherlock supposed it could have been worse, after all, they could have been playing football or rugby or something horrible like that, but that still didn’t make him enthusiastic when he’d been handed a racquet and told to go find someone to play against.

Sherlock couldn’t deny that he enjoyed moving around again. After three weeks in a hospital room, he was sick of sitting around all the time. The physical exertion was nice. He didn’t really like tennis, though. 

He considered going back to martial arts, which he hadn’t even thought about since he quit when he was fourteen, and decided that he’d think more about it that afternoon once he got out of school.

His third hour class was an entirely different sort of torture. Health class. Why he had let the school counselor who handled his scheduling put him into a health class, Sherlock had no idea.

The class period started off horribly enough when the teacher had made him stand in front of the class and introduce himself, and it just went downhill from there.  It was just his luck that the class had just started talking about substance abuse.  If he didn’t know any better, he would suspect that Mycroft had something to do with this.

While the point of the class was clearly to discourage such things, all that the class period had done was make him ache to light up. Or shoot up, but he knew that would have to wait until he could find a new supplier.

Once lunchtime rolled around, Sherlock made his way over to the Music and Arts Building and found Mr. Jones. Once he’d been granted entry to a practice room, Sherlock had again spent his entire lunch hour playing the piano. His heart wasn’t in it, though, and Sherlock was disgusted by the way his skills had deteriorated from his lack of practice. He had a feeling that part of the problem with how his left hand was performing had to do with the damage he had caused when he’d cut his arm open, but he didn’t want to think about such things and so he told himself he would get back to his previous level with practice.

As he returned the key to Mr. Jones’ office at the end of the hour, Sherlock was shocked by the words that came out of the teacher’s mouth.

“You know, if you’re going to be coming in here to play every day during lunch, I could help you out a bit. I can hear you practicing, and you’re rather good. You don’t really sound like you need much help, but you sound a little rusty. The pianos in here are nicer than the ones in the practice rooms, so if you decide you want to you can practice in here and I can give you a few pointers while you’re at it.” 

The man looked completely sincere, and Sherlock could detect no signs that he had an ulterior motive, but the offer still put Sherlock off. 

Sherlock wanted to protest when the man had said that he, Sherlock, was rather good, because to Sherlock’s ears he sounded horrible, but he held himself back.

After a pause that was probably a bit longer than was comfortable for the music teacher, Sherlock finally responded. “I’ll…I’ll think about it.” Almost as an afterthought he added a short “Thank you.”

That off-putting exchange out of the way, Sherlock continued on to the rest of his classes.

They were all just as nightmarish as they had been the day before.

By the time the day was done, the only good thing Sherlock could think to say about it was “At least it was a Friday.”


	3. Chapter 3

From what Sherlock knew of people and their habits, he was pretty sure that most people would give up on trying to contact someone after the fifth time that their call was ignored. Then again, Mycroft was not like most people.

After the twelfth time he ignored a call from his brother, Sherlock was tempted to drop his mobile out a window.

When Mycroft tried fifteen times, Sherlock decided he’d rather answer the call and listen to Mycroft’s grating voice than listen to his phone ring one more time.

“What do you want?” Sherlock huffed as he finally gave in and answered the call.

“Ah! So you _are_ alive; I was beginning to wonder if maybe you’d gone and tried to kill yourself again.”

Sherlock knew Mycroft was just trying to get a rise out of him, so he ignored the jibe and waited for him to get to the point of the call.

“I simply wanted you to know that I’ll be stopping by to visit you tomorrow and then you’re coming with me to London until Monday afternoon.”

Mycroft was far too busy to want Sherlock to just come by for a visit, so Sherlock was instantly suspicious.

“Why?”

“I have to have some ulterior motive for wanting to see my little brother?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft made an offended noise before responding, “Well, Father-“

“He is not my father, Mycroft!” Sherlock couldn’t help interrupting and again trying, in vain, to shove this fact into Mycroft’s brain.

“Father is going to be away on business this evening and won’t be back until Monday. He has asked me to keep an eye on you while he is gone.”

“Why is this the first I’m hearing about him going away? Isn’t that the sort of thing you’re supposed to tell the people who live with you?” 

Mycroft’s answer was pretty much exactly what Sherlock expected. “He tells me that you haven’t spoken a word to him, or paid attention to anything he has said, since Tuesday evening, apparently because you are unhappy about something to do with your surname?  I’ve also been informed that I should try to get you to eat something; Father tells me that you haven’t consented to coming to any meals for since Tuesday, Sherlock. Don’t you know that it’s not healthy to go without food for days on end?”

It was all true, Sherlock knew. He hadn’t said a word to Artair Holmes since they had a bit of a row on Monday evening.  Sherlock had conceded that he would have to go to school, but he had wanted to enroll under the name Sherlock Reinhardt because, as he told Mr. Holmes, that was his name now and it had been for many years. Mr. Holmes had not taken very happily to the idea; there had been much yelling between the two of them that ended with Sherlock storming away and locking himself in his room until Thursday, when he finally left sometime around ten in the morning after Mycroft had called and threatened him with being admitted to a psychiatric facility, where they would be better suited to deal with Sherlock's particular issues, if he didn’t go to school.

Sherlock found out upon arriving at the school that Artair Holmes had gone to the school on Wednesday and enrolled him, under the name of Sherlock _Holmes_. Sherlock had a feeling that Mycroft had used his government position to make this possible.

Sherlock was still mad and, though it was now Friday evening, had not spoken to the eldest Holmes nor had he paid any attention whenever the man had tried to speak to him.  He hadn’t realized it before Mycroft mentioned it, but now that Sherlock thought about it he realized he hadn’t eaten since dinner Tuesday. That knowledge made a few other things make sense, like why he hadn’t been feeling too well earlier that day.

“My body is just transport. It doesn’t matter what I do to it, so long as it can still get me where I need to be. “

“Believe what you will, Sherlock, but you’re going to eat something tomorrow if I have to force-feed you.” Sherlock could imagine it: Mycroft sitting on him, nearly squishing him in the process, and shoving a sandwich into his face.  He couldn’t control the snicker that escaped him at the thought.

“You don’t need to inconvenience yourself on my account, brother. I can take care of myself for a weekend.” Sherlock knew it wouldn’t work, but it was worth a try.

“I imagine your definition of taking care of yourself includes absolutely nothing that most people would consider healthy or good for you. No, Sherlock, I’ll be there at 9 tomorrow morning to collect you.”

“Fine.” Sherlock hung up on his brother, ending the conversation that felt had already stretched on for far too long.

His first instinct was to run away to his home that night while Artair Holmes was gone and before Mycroft would arrive to take him to London for the weekend.

His second instinct was to stop and think about his options.  He could run tonight, when Mycroft undoubtedly expected him to, or he could wait just another day or two and escape right from beneath Mycroft’s nose.  Sherlock couldn’t deny that he wanted to be gone as soon as possible, but the idea of slipping away while he was in Mycroft’s grasp was a sweet one.  The opportunity to prove to his brother that he was wrong about thinking, even for a moment, that he had Sherlock securely on a tight leash was too tempting to resist.

A bit of research showed that there was a 4AM departure from London on Sunday morning that would take him to Paris where he could change trains and go to Toulouse.

So Sherlock would wait until early Sunday morning to slip away from Mycroft’s home in London. Hopefully Mycroft would be sleeping by the time Sherlock would need to leave for the station.

For now, though, he had packing to do.  He couldn’t bring too much with him lest he risk Mycroft’s suspicion, so he would have to leave most of his belongings. Fortunately for him, most of what he owned was still in his home in Toulouse.

Deciding what to pack was not a difficult process. He would bring exactly what he would take if he were truly just planning to go to London for a few days with Mycroft: his laptop, a few sets of clothes, and a few packs of cigarettes.

With his packing out of the way, Sherlock struggled to think of a way to entertain himself.

Deciding that since he had the house to himself for the night he might as well be comfortable, Sherlock did what he always liked to do when home alone; he got rid of his clothes and took the sheet from his bed to wear as a covering.

While wandering around the house in search of anything to do to entertain himself, Sherlock found absolutely nothing of interest to him. He knew that with Artair Holmes gone he could snoop through anything he wanted, but nothing really caught his eye.

His boredom was reaching a dangerous level when he happened upon the house’s library. Sherlock wasn’t usually one to read unless he was researching, but he really didn’t have anything else to do and so reading suddenly became a lot more appealing than usual.

He collected a small pile of books, randomly plucking them off the shelves, and got as comfortable as was possible in the stiff, leather chair by the window in the library.

The book on the top of his pile was about beekeeping, and Sherlock soon found himself inexplicably fascinated.

Mycroft Holmes was used to seeing strange things. He works for the government, after all. So it should not have come as such a shock to him when he found his seventeen year old brother, wearing nothing but a sheet, sprawled upside down on a chair in the library of his family home, reading the journal of their great-great-grandmother’s lover who was a pirate in his younger days.

“Hello, Mycroft.”

“Good morning, Sherlock.  Considering a career as a pirate, brother? Or perhaps a beekeeper?”

“Why not both?”

“I don’t believe beekeeping pirates exist.” Mycroft wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, but he half expected an argument to break out any moment. He hated to admit it, but this was by far the most civil conversation they’d had in recent memory.

“Good. I’ll invent it and be the only one in the world.”

Sherlock didn’t seem to be phased by the fact that he was still sitting upside down in his chair and wearing only a sheet, nor was he particularly phased by the look that Mycroft shot him that plainly stated ‘You are saying stupid things. Quit it.’

“I don’t doubt that you’ll invent your own profession someday, Sherlock, but not today. Today, you need to go and get dressed so that we can go to London.”

Sherlock’s face took on a disgruntled expression, but for a few moments he seemed willing to comply before he changed his mind, clearly deciding that it was time to be difficult again. “I’m quite comfortable as I am, Mycroft; I think I’ll just stay like this if you don’t mind. Actually, I think I’ll stay like this whether you mind or not.”

“Don’t be difficult. Just go put your clothing on so that we can leave.”  When Sherlock didn’t make any motion to do as he was told, Mycroft began to get slightly frustrated. “I am not asking you to do anything difficult; all you have to do is put on clothes! Even you can’t be opposed to something as necessary as wearing clothing.”

“I don’t like the clothes I have here! I refuse to waste my weekend by being uncomfortable the entire time.”

“Then wear pyjamas.” With that said, Mycroft grabbed the back of the chair his brother was in and tilted it so that Sherlock was dumped gracelessly onto the floor. “Now, Sherlock! Go on.”

After rising from the floor with his usual grace, Sherlock stalked out angrily from the room, throwing one last glare over his shoulder at Mycroft as he went.

Mycroft sighed and dropped into the chair his brother had just vacated. There was something off about his brother’s behavior, but Mycroft just couldn’t put his finger on what it was.  He was being a pain in the arse, as usual, but something about him was just different from what Mycroft had been expecting. Mycroft decided that he would have to keep a close eye on his brother over the weekend to see if he could figure out the reason for the change.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft’s home in London was worse than Sherlock imagined.

It was boring, quiet, and horrible.  Everything was too neat. The chaos that was his mind rebelled at such orderly conditions.  He spent the entire day after arriving there wandering about and making a wreck of things, becoming more irritated by the moment as one of Mycroft’s staff followed along after him, keeping track of him as Mycroft had ordered.

Eventually he could simply no longer stand having the mousy little woman following him around any longer. He fled to the guest room where he was supposed to sleep. She tried to follow him in and he slammed the door before she could.  “Your presence is nauseating, you insipid hag! Can’t you just leave me alone?”

The echo of a door slamming bounced through the entire flat before being drowned out by the busy sounds of London.

Sherlock flung himself gracelessly onto the too soft bed in the too luxurious room that Mycroft had assigned him.  _Just a few more hours_ , he thought. _I can last a few more hours in this hellhole of a country._

Finally completely alone for the first time in hours, Sherlock tried to calm his mind; it had been racing ever since he’d arrived in London. His enhanced senses were overwhelmed by all the sights, sounds, and scents of the city. His mind was on overdrive trying to process everything he’d observed in Mycroft’s home.

He sprawled on the uncomfortably soft bed for the rest of the afternoon and tried in vain to come up with a way to occupy his mind. He tried for ages to ignore the restless, crawling sensations that went through his body and the whispers from the back of his mind telling him that all his problems would go away with a hit. It didn’t even matter what, just a hit of anything would do: cocaine, heroin, even morphine. That whisper from the back of his mind, which sounded suspiciously like his old dealer, wouldn’t go away.  _You’re in London,_ it would say, _there’s a junkie in every alley and probably ten dealers within walking distance. Just go on and find one. Nothing can go wrong; the morons in this house wouldn’t even realize you’d left._

He was nearly convinced and was halfway to the door before Sherlock’s sense returned to him. He remembered his plan and couldn’t believe he’d almost ruined his chances of escaping.

 _Just a few more hours,_ he repeated to himself.

Half a pack of cigarettes later and the edge had almost been taken off of his need for something more powerful, but only almost.

_Just a few more hours._

It was 10 PM when he decided to eat in order to gather strength.  On the way back to his room from the kitchen Sherlock passed by Mycroft’s study and, as silently as possible, peeked through the keyhole in order to see if Mycroft was still awake.

“Are you going to come in or just skulk in the hall all night?”

Sherlock started at the sound of Mycroft’s voice, but recovered quickly and let himself into the study.

“Really, Sherlock, what sort of imbecile do you take me for? Even if I hadn’t heard you on the squeaky stair, I would have seen your shadow beneath the door.”

Mentally cursing his own clumsiness and longing to wipe the disgusting smirk off of Mycroft’s face, Sherlock allowed no outward reaction. He just began a quick inspection of the room.  Since he was in there, Sherlock figured he could use the time to his advantage and look for anything he could later use against his brother.   

Mycroft allowed the inspection for a moment, obviously aware that Sherlock would find nothing in the impeccably clean and ordered room.

“Was there something you wanted or do you just make a habit of peeping through keyholes?”

“I’m just bored,” Sherlock lied, perhaps a little too quickly to be believable. “If you’re going to kidnap someone then you should at least keep them entertained. Really, where are your manners?”

“I’ll be sure to remember that if I ever kidnap someone.  But since I have not kidnapped you, I don’t believe it is my responsibility to keep you entertained. Read a book or do something productive. And stop smoking in my home; you’ll have the whole place smelling like a pub.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to leave the room; he wasn’t getting any new or useful information from staying there, so he saw no point in hanging around. 

He was almost out of the room when Mycroft called to him, saying “In fact, just stop smoking altogether. It’s horrible for your body. You’ve really got to start taking better care of yourself, Sherlock.”

“Yes, mother,” Sherlock muttered as he pulled the heavy door shut behind him and began the trek back to his room, restlessness and anxiousness already creeping up on him again.

_Just a few more hours._

Midnight.

Sherlock knew that his pacing would be suspicious if Mycroft heard it. He’d know that Sherlock was anxious about something. But Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to stop pacing and settle down.

He just hoped that Mycroft would take the pacing as a sign of Sherlock’s agitation from being dragged to London against his will.

_Just a few more hours._

1:30 and Sherlock was beyond anxious to be on his way.

The music he’d found was helping to calm him a bit, but there was only so much that even the sounds of an orchestra booming through his computer’s speakers could do. 

It was then that Mycroft came around, banging on Sherlock’s door and insisting that he “Turn the music off and go to sleep like a decent human being!”

According to Mycroft, everyone sane was already asleep and Sherlock should join them.

He plugged in a pair of headphones, but Sherlock never turned the music off and never even tried to sleep. He had no intention of screwing up his escape by falling asleep and causing himself to miss his train.

_Not long at all now. I can leave here any minute._

Shortly before three, Sherlock crept through the his brother’s dark, silent home, avoiding all the creaky spots he’d noticed earlier and making sure to be on the lookout for any signs of life. As he passed near Mycroft’s bedroom, Sherlock paused and listened for a minute until he heard the soft, rhythmic snoring that told him Mycroft was sleeping.

Upon finally finding himself outside, thankfully undetected, Sherlock walked the brief distance to the nearest tube station and caught the train which would take him where he needed to go.  

 _I’ll be home by tonight,_ he told himself. _In France by the end of the morning, and home before nightfall._

_And feeling your old friend running through your veins before the day is done,_ whispered the familiar voice in his mind, the voice of Sherlock’s addictions.

“Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes, sir! Wake up! Your brother is gone!” The shouts of Mycroft’s personal assistant reverberated through the quiet building as Anthea bounded across the home toward Mycroft’s room.

The ornate door opened just as she reached it and was about to begin knocking.   

A weaker person than Anthea would have quaked with fear from the expression on her employer’s face. His alert, stony expression was at odds with his sleepy appearance in a way that should have been comical, but on Mycroft Holmes was anything but. “ _What_ did you just say?”

“He’s gone, sir.  I went to wake him up and find out if he had anything that he’d like to see in London today, like you requested, and he wasn’t there. I checked with the rest of the staff and no one has seen him all morning.”

Mycroft immediately sprang to action.  Any irritation he’d felt at being awoken was gone in an instant.

He checked Sherlock’s room and the rest of the home, not that he didn’t trust Anthea to do a thorough job searching but Mycroft was aware how creatively Sherlock was able to hide when he put his mind to it.

Once he was sure his brother was truly nowhere on the premises, the older Holmes checked the surveillance videos from the cameras which were discreetly located outside every entrance or exit of the home, searching for evidence of when his brother had left.

Upon discovering that Sherlock had approximately a seven hour head start on them, Mycroft began to fear for his brother’s safety. The first tendrils of true worry began to sneak into his mind, but he suppressed the urge to panic, knowing that he would need a clear head to find his brother.

He called Sherlock’s mobile, but Mycroft was sure it would come to nothing before he even tried. He was proven right when the sounds of a shrill ringing came from the region of Sherlock’s room.

_Of course he wouldn’t bring it. Mobiles can be traced, Sherlock knows that. He isn’t stupid._

“Where would Sherlock go? Where would he go in an unfamiliar city,” Mycroft muttered to himself.

The answer hit him like a brick to the face, causing Mycroft to stop short in his pacing.

 _Drugs._ _Sherlock has gone for drugs._

The fact that it had taken him so long to realize where Sherlock must have gone showed how worried Mycroft really was; he was known for his cool head and ability to think logically in all situations, it was part of what made Mycroft, young though he was, such a valuable member of Her Majesty’s Government.  But even Mycroft Holmes couldn’t keep his head with his little brother’s safety on the line.

“Oh, no. Anthea! Get the car. I believe I know where to begin our search. “

Even though Sherlock was unfamiliar with London, Mycroft was positive that his brother could find some place to get what he wanted. After all, every place where you can buy illegal substances carries certain marks, certain signs, which distinguish them from the more reputable areas, regardless of city.  And Sherlock could see more in a single glance than most people ever saw; if he was looking for drugs, he would find them.

Though he didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, Mycroft knew it was probably too late to stop Sherlock from relapsing. All he could hope for at this point was to find him safe. He flat out refused to even consider the possibility that Sherlock would intentionally make a second attempt to take his own life, but Mycroft knew that the risk of an overdose was especially high when one relapsed. The pictures he’d seen of Sherlock at the hospital in France, pictures taken the day after he’d arrived at the hospital by the staff, rushed to the front of Mycroft’s mind: images of a gaunt, dead-looking Sherlock less than a day after his intentional overdose. Nausea threatened to overwhelm Mycroft at the thought of finding his brother in a similar state, lying slumped over half-dead in a London alleyway.

 _Stop it, Mycroft_ , he mentally commanded himself. _This isn’t helping anything. Panicking won’t find him and the longer you take to find him to worse off he could be._


End file.
